Lauren Yanofsky Hates the Holocaust (15 page)

No matter what I do, the Holocaust keeps finding me, like a bad smell I can't get rid of. I even sense it in the garage because of the Mengele book. I wish I'd found somewhere better to hide it than in here. Whenever I think about that book, I feel hate welling in me. Hate for Mengele, for the Nazis and for the world that let Mengele do those things. I even hate the authors for writing the book.

The automatic garage light goes out, leaving me in the dark, and I wrap my arms around myself, shivering. I used to be scared of the dark; now I'm scared of becoming the kind of person who is filled with hate. It's more than sixty years since the Holocaust and here I am, still worked up. And I'm not even Jewish anymore. At least, I'm trying not to be. I never did come up with a good “de-conversion” ceremony, and I've never told anyone about my non-religious status.

I should have taken out an ad in
The Independent
, the local Jewish paper: Susan and David Yanofsky regret to announce that their daughter, Lauren Michelle Yanofsky, is no longer a Jew. Donations for counseling gratefully accepted. I should have tried harder to come up with a ritual or ceremony for becoming un-Jewish. A symbolic burning would have been great. I could have torched my bat mitzvah certificate. Becoming a bat mitzvah is supposed to mean you are responsible for your own religious life. If I burned that piece of paper, would I feel more free? I sit upright, humming with energy.

I close the garage door, moving across the lawn and into the house quickly and quietly. Mercifully, the lights are out now, except for the night-lights illuminating the stairs. I want to get into the house and leave again without anyone noticing. I'm sprinting up the stairs with my jacket still on when Mom calls, “Lauren?” from her bedroom.

I freeze halfway up the stairs. “Yes?”

Mom sticks her head out the door. “I wanted to make sure you got in safely.”

“Yeah, I'm fine.”

“Was that you in the garage?”

“Yes.”

“What were you doing out there?”

“Oh…” I pause. “Just thinking.”

Mom gives me a weird look. “I'm glad you got in early.”

She blows me a kiss. “Good night.”

“Night.”

I stay still until there's no noise from my parents' room, then dash up to my room and shuffle through the contents of my desk drawer. My bat mitzvah certificate is still tied with a baby-pink ribbon. I race back down the stairs, grab a box of matches from above the stove and slip out the back door. The sensor lights flick on, and I stop and look up at my parents' bedroom. Their room stays dark, so I continue out the back gate to the lane. I lean against the garage a moment to catch my breath. I'm sweating, even though it's cold and damp outside. I tuck the certificate under my arm and scrape a match against the sandpaper on the matchbox. A deep sigh moves through me as the match bursts into flame. I hold up my bat mitzvah certificate and bring the match to it. The cheap paper burns quickly. I drop it when it gets too hot to hold and stamp out the flames. It's over way too fast.

I wander down the lane, shivering a little. I wish I was on a beach with a raging bonfire, one hot enough to warm my hands or cook baked potatoes. If I had a big enough fire, I could raze all my father's horrible books. Or just one book, the Mengele book lurking in the garage. That would be enough. I shudder. The Nazis burned books to try to destroy Jewish culture. I'm acting like them. It's their hate getting to me. I shrug off this idea. I want to burn the Mengele book so I'll never have to read it again.

I pause, mulling over the idea. And then I spring into action, rummaging in the garage behind the sun umbrella. The book will make a bigger fire, one that'll last longer. Back in the lane, I tuck the book under my arm and light a second match. It's drizzling now, and the match hesitates before catching flame. Then I hold the book by the spine, pages spread, and light it on fire. My breath is ragged now, my pulse racing as if I had just sprinted up a hill. The pages twist and bend in the flames, and then the whole book starts to flicker. It's like a flaming flower, so beautiful I wish I could photograph it. I feel the flames grow hot against my palm before the book is even half scorched, and I know I should drop it on the pavement and move it down the lane with a stick so it doesn't leave a mark on the pavement, but it looks so stunning, I don't want to let go. I feel the heat on my palm, excruciating yet also exciting. I suck in my breath a moment longer and then drop the book. I grab a stick and push the ball of flame down the lane, like I'm playing field hockey. I want to take a slap shot, but I resist and gently bat the book across the asphalt. My next lantern could be a hockey stick with a flaming puck. When the flames die down, I stamp them into ashes. The scorch mark is small and won't show on the pockmarked lane.

I skip down the lane, still holding the stick in my hands. I made a ball of flames, and it was unbelievably gorgeous. Then I chuck away the stick and start to sprint. When I stop to catch my breath, I feel a burning sensation on my palm. In the backyard I examine my hand under the sensor light. I instantly become aware of pain when I see the burn on my palm. Oh fuck. How the hell am I going to explain this? Still, I'm kind of pleased. This is my mark of conversion. I imagine un-converting other people from religious backgrounds as a way of creating world peace. We could all bear scars on our palms as marks of our journey.

In the house, I thrust my hand under cold running water and force myself to wash it with soap. It hurts so badly, I have to stamp my foot so I don't scream. I take a few deep breaths and then quickly wrap my hand in gauze. I realize I'm sweating from the pain, so I treat myself to two extra-strength painkillers.

I lie on my bed, too keyed up to sleep. I batted a burning book down the lane. I got rid of the Mengele book. Holy shit, I think, I even burned my bat mitzvah certificate. I want to get up and tell someone, but who? Everyone would think I was crazy. My hand starts to ache really badly. How am I going to play basketball or even hold a pen? What if it gets infected? How will I explain the burn? An accident? I roll over, and something pokes my hip. I pull the armband out of my pocket. I should have burned it too. I slide it into my night-table drawer to get it out of sight, change into my pajamas and lie in bed listening to my noisy pulse. Finally, the drugs kick in, my head becomes groggy, and I fall asleep.

My throbbing hand wakes me up the next morning. Shit, I think, infected already. It's raining steadily outside, making the light coming through my window a flat gray. I lie in bed and think about the Mengele book, reduced to ashes. All the information from that copy is now either part of the atmosphere or ground into the asphalt in the back lane. Except for the part that has eaten away my hand and is still burning away in my mind. I shake my head, but even that movement makes my hand hurt. I take two more painkillers and put on an old sweatshirt over my pajamas. The stretched-out sleeves dangle over my hands.

Dad is in the kitchen, drinking coffee and reading a brochure for a Holocaust Studies convention. Mom's probably driving Zach to swimming lessons.

“Good morning.” Dad looks up from his reading. “How about pancakes?”

I yawn and lean on the counter. “Sure.”

Dad puts down the brochure, and I pick it up and start reading. “Hey, Dad, can you please tell the Holocaust people to hold the conference in Hawaii next year?”

“Hmm, not so many Holocaust historians live in Hawaii.”

“Yes, but the Holocaustarians might like the beach.”

“Right.” Dad sighs. “Can you get the pan for me?”

When I reach down to open the drawer, the bandage on my hand peeks out from my sleeve.

“What happened to your hand?”

“Nothing.”

“Let me see that.”

“It's nothing.”

Dad grabs my hand and looks at the gauze. “Honey, what happened?”

“It got a little burned.”

“Burned? How did you get burned?” Dad's eyebrows shoot up his forehead.

“Oh, we had a fire at Em's in the fireplace, and a log fell out and I grabbed it.”

“How bad is it?”

“It's nothing, really.”

He gives me a skeptical look. “That's an awfully big bandage for nothing. I think we should get your mom to look at it.”

“She's a nutritionist, not a nurse. And she's not even here.” I get up to leave.

“Lauren.”

“Yes.”

“Unwrap your hand.”

“It's nothing.”

“Lauren, now.” Dad has a look in his eyes I haven't seen in a long time, not since I told Zach to fuck off in front of the rabbi during my bat mitzvah photographs.

“Um, okay.” I lean on the island and peel off the bandage. I was too freaked out to even look at the burn this morning.

Dad lets out a long whistle. “Get your health card and get in the car.”

“What about the pancakes?”

“Pancakes? Are you nuts?”

“I'm hungry.”

Dad's voice gets louder. “Lauren, go get dressed, then get in the car.”

We drive to emergency at Children's Hospital and sit in the waiting room, not talking to each other. I try to read
The Tempest
for school, but I can't concentrate. Dad focuses on his Blackberry, texting Mom the highlights of our wait.

After an hour I say to Dad, “It's not like they're going to do anything about it.”

“What, you're a burn specialist all of a sudden?”

“So I'll have a little scar.”

“Lauren, you're missing the palm of your hand.” He says this way too loudly, and people stare at me.

I start to cry. “It was an accident.”

He puts his arm around me and squeezes my shoulder. “I know. I'm just worried. How are you going to dribble with your hand in a bandage?”

This makes me cry harder. My hand is killing me now, absolutely throbbing. “You don't have to wait, if you don't want to,” I say through my tears.

“Of course I'm going to wait.”

I keep expecting him to ask me more about the accident. But he doesn't. I feel guilty. I mean, I burned a book. I burned
his
book. I imagine telling him the truth: my friend went out with the guy I'm in love with while his friends were playing Nazi, and so I came home and burned a Holocaust book in the back lane. He'd take me over to the psych ward. Maybe I should be there. I start to feel panicky, so I focus on my breathing.

When it's finally my turn, the doctor who examines my hand looks like Whoopi Goldberg. She doesn't ask me what happened, just cleans the wound, which hurts like hell, and prescribes Tylenol 3.

“Denny's for pancakes?” Dad asks as we leave the hospital.

“No, thanks.” I want to curl up in bed, maybe listen to some music.

Mom is waiting for us when we get back. I'm expecting an inquisition, but instead she hands me a glass of water and pulls back the covers for me. “We'll talk later,” she says.

I swallow the painkillers, pull the covers over my head and cry. I'm not sure if it's because of the pain or because my parents are being so impossibly nice or because I burned a book. Mostly, I think it's because I can't get that image of Brooke and Jesse out of my head.

T
welve

Z
ach has made nine plane lanterns, each in a different design and color, since he found me trying to make my star. My favorites are a red biplane, a yellow bomber and a helicopter painted bright turquoise. Each plane has a spot for a candle in the cockpit. Zach's lined them up as if the workbench is a busy runway. Next to the planes are more drawings, each with Zach's carefully drawn ruler lines. The wood Zach cut for my star is still neatly stacked on top of the design he drew for me, but I know I won't bother to make it. The picture I drew looks boring next to Zach's elegant planes, and I crumple the paper and shove it in the garbage bin under the bench. Maybe I'll take Zach and his lanterns to the lantern festival next summer, although he hates crowds.

I sigh and listen to the hum of the furnace and the other quiet noises of the house on a Monday afternoon. It's pouring outside and windy: I can hear the rain blowing against the basement windows, funneling through the gutters. I rest my head on the worktable, still woozy from the painkillers, my burned palm pulsing like sonar. I almost fall asleep, but then my neck gets sore, so I go back to bed. When I open my bedside drawer for more Tylenol, I see the Nazi armband. I take it out and look at it. I should have burned it with the Mengele book and my bat mitzvah certificate. But I didn't, and now it's here, like a gory bit of evidence. I should send it to the Holocaust museum Dad volunteers at, further evidence of ongoing anti-Semitism in the modern world. Jews, take cover: the Holocaust lives on, even if just in the minds of ignorant teenage boys. Alexis still thinks I should tell the school or my parents. She'd probably call the Anti-Defamation League headquarters in New York and make it international news:
Teenage Boys
Play Nazi.
But that's not it, that's not it at all. This isn't about hating Jews; it's about boys and their guns and their stupid games. Like Jesse said, it's just a bunch of guys in the park.

And it's about Jesse, who isn't a Nazi, isn't my boyfriend, either, and possibly is not even a friend. He hasn't texted me all weekend. I'm just part of a game of guys, guns and interchangeable, disposable girls. I roll over in bed and punch my pillow into a new shape. Nothing is sacred to them—not history, not relationships.

I finger the armband—the staples, the thick white paper, the swastika drawn with a ruler and filled in with black markers. It makes me think of the Mengele book, even though that book is ashes in the lane. I twirl the armband around my finger, hold it up to the light, bend the edges until the paper becomes soft. What should I do with it?

1. Throw it out and forget about it (except I won't).